Christmas – The hardest day of the year (2/2)

Dear sufferers

I know you’re scared right now. I know the anxiety of Christmas feels like a knot in your stomach. I know you wish with all your heart that you could be normal. I know you wish you could eat freely and laugh properly. I know you wish you could tell everyone how incredible your year has been. I know you wish your biggest achievement of the year wasn’t that you’re still here. Whatever your diagnosis. I know you wish it didn’t have to come to Christmas with you.

But you’re not alone and I’m so proud of you. You are a warrior. It might feel impossible, but you can get through it. Eat what you can. Challenge yourself if you feel able and try to distract yourself with the conversation. You may even be able to enjoy it. But if you don’t that’s ok too. No one is judging you. You have an illness and that’s not your fault. Just know that there are people that care. There are helplines you can call. There are friends that will listen.

I’m so sorry you feel the way you do – but it won’t be like this forever. I promise. Deep breaths. It’s going to be tough – but I have so much faith in you. One day Christmas will feel easier, and maybe you’re not there yet. And that’s ok. Your feelings are valid. And never punish yourself for feeling the way you do. Do your best, and that’s all anyone can ask of you.

I’m wishing you all a very happy and healthy Christmas and I hope the New Year will bring beautiful things and new adventures.

All my love and take care guys



Christmas – It’s just one day after all. Why can’t they just try for one day? (1/2)

I want to do a personal post at some point, but today I want to talk about Christmas.

Mental illness does not take a break during the festive period. And as much as we would love a break, unfortunately we do not get one.

The first of two posts will be a letter to non sufferers of Mental illness.

Dear non sufferers

I know you find it hard. I know you don’t understand why your loved one cannot be happy and relax with everyone else at Christmas.

It’s just one day after all. Why can’t they just try for one day?

If they have an eating disorder you think – why can’t they just eat normally today? A few roast potatoes can’t hurt. A mince pie with coffee – what’s so hard about that? Why do they have to be so quiet when eating Christmas dinner? It’s making it so awkward. Why are they staring at that plate as if it’s poison? Do they not realise they’re making everyone feel uncomfortable? Why can’t they just pull crackers and read out daft jokes? Even after dinner it feels like they’re not there. No smiles. Or if there are – you can tell it’s forced. You think about how today is such a special day. Why are they being so selfish? Why are they being so dramatic?

It’s just one day after all. Why can’t they just try for one day?

If they have depression you think – why can’t they just be happy today? It’s just one day. Can’t they just smile their way through one day? Can’t they just be normal for one day? Why do they have to look so sad? Why are they mumbling their words and staring at their hands? Why are they just picking at their food? Don’t they realise how rude that is? You ask about how their year has been. But why are they deflecting and avoiding the question? You know it’s been hard for them – but there must have been some good things? They look so close to tears. But why? There haven’t been any arguments. There’s no reason for them to cry. Why are they trying to ruin this day for everyone?

It’s just one day after all. Why can’t they just try for one day?

I know it’s tough having Christmas with a loved one who suffers from mental illness – but remember it’s not their fault.

Eating disorders are not a choice. And the pressure of Christmas exacerbates everything. While children everywhere are fighting sleep so they can catch Santa leaving their stocking – we’re kept up at night with the anxiety of the following day. Watching everyone tucking into the food with smiles and laughter makes us feel so alone. No one else at the table is dreading the consequences of the days intake. And that’s how we see it. An intake. It’s not simply food to us. It’s a calculated energy consumption. It’s a fight to the death on Christmas. The desperation to join in the fun v the desperation to stick to our safe foods. Because even if we manage dinner – there is the monumental guilt to deal with. And that guilt will be what plagues us for the rest of the day. Making it through dinner is an achievement, yes, but it won’t make us happy. It will leave us exhausted and drain all our energy for the rest of the day. But please be understanding. We are trying. And we’re trying because we don’t want to ruin it for everyone else. We’re trying because we don’t want to be selfish.

Depression doesn’t take a break at Christmas. Depression makes you feel lonely even when there are people around you. Being surrounded by happy faces when on the inside you’re in so much pain is isolating. Sometimes we have very little to show for the previous year, so questions about how we’ve been are so difficult to answer. Our self esteem is so low that we don’t know how to tell you about our achievements because we don’t see it like that. And sometimes our achievement is simply being alive. But that’s not the sort of thing you can bring up at the dinner table. Sometimes the anxiety can become too much and we want to be alone for a bit. Sometimes we feel like crying because all we can think about is how utterly useless we feel.

Please be understanding at Christmas.

It’s not just one day for us. It is the hardest day of the year.

Thanks for reading and take care guys


Closing one Chapter and Opening the Next

“Growth is painful, change is painful but nothing is as painful as being stuck somewhere you don’t belong”

Well I’m going to jump straight in and start with a positive. Things are looking up. Having just re-read my last blog post, I am a bit in shock and upset remembering how bad of a place I was in. I was discharged from that admission a week later and I am currently *drum roll* 3 months psychiatric hospital free and I am genuinely really proud. It hasn’t been easy at all. I went on holiday in June/July to Colombia to visit my mother’s family. We normally go every 2 years but I’d missed a holiday meaning I hadn’t been in 4 years.

Making the decision to go on this holiday was very hard. I adore my family, but I had many things to weigh up: the length of the holiday and how I would cope without professional input, the reactions of my family who would more than likely comment on how different I looked (this is in relation to weight – I’m a much higher weight than 4 years go) and the general anxiety of massive gatherings and so many people around me constantly. But I decide to go. I realised that my fears were trumped by the desire to see a huge family that loves me unconditionally. My cousins are growing up far too fast and I don’t want to miss out on that any more than I have to.

So I went and it was a success. It wasn’t without it’s challenges, but most of that was down to my own insecurities as opposed to anything done or said on their part. I have now been back from my holiday about a month and we are now about midway through August.

Right so here is the news I promised – I have decided to return to University in a last fierce attempt to compete my degree. I will go back to where I left of which is 2nd Semester of 3rd year. After that I will have one more year to do and finally be finished. It’s been a hard decision for me. Those of you who have followed this blog for a long time (and thank you so much) will know that I tried going back in 2017 and it didn’t end well. And having had time to reflect on that, I now see that in order to devote my time to becoming “student” Jenny, I have to let go of “ill” Jenny. As the two simply aren’t compatible for me.

I’m not saying that come January I won’t be mentally ill. I’m saying that come January I will *hopefully* not be cutting to the point of having to spend 4 hours at a&e for stitches or doing anything that may result in a hospital admission – sectioned or voluntary. I know I’ll slip up. I don’t do what I do, think what I think or feel how I feel out of choice. If it was a choice I’d just stop and everything would be great. But in the next 4 months I’m putting everything I’ve got into finding healthy ways to cope that work for me.

I finally feel ready to close this very long chapter of my life, but I won’t be forgetting it. I don’t want to dismiss or be embarrassed about what I’ve been through. I am proud of being a survivor and for fighting even when I was so close to dying. I just need to find a purpose that will keep me going and hopefully this will be the motivation I need.

People say I’m putting too much pressure on myself. But I know myself better than anyone else (funny that) and I know I need that pressure and determination to thrive. I recognise that if this doesn’t work out for whatever reason it will probably break me and it will be hard to get through. I am terrified of having a repeat of 2017 so I understand the concern. But the closest and most supportive people in my life know how important this is to me. Getting a law degree is something I’ve wanted to do ever since I did work experience with my dads cousin in a Magistrates Court 12 years ago. They know it’s not a question of “just try and if it doesn’t work it’s fine”. There is nothing else I want to do more than this. They understand how important it is for me, not only as an academic achievement but a personal one too. And instead of shrugging and saying “if you can’t do it take a night class” they say “great that’s so amazing, how can I help?”. And there is the difference.

So I guess what I’m saying is, before I was too scared to close this chapter of my life. There have been times I’ve turned the page and tried to get into the next chapter and then immediately turned back. I didn’t know how to become the person I was before I became ill, but now I know it’s never about trying to be the person you were. It’s about discovering the person you are now – without the labels. Of course I’ll have changed since I first became ill at 14. But also since becoming an adult – I don’t expect anyone who is soon to be 25 is the same person they were at 18.

As humans we are constantly learning, developing and changing. It can be something as simple as finding a new favourite food. Or more transient things like realising who our true friends are. Or falling in love. Or discovering a hidden talent. Or finding a new hobby. You get where I’m headed. For me to try and find that lost and hurt 14 year old girl would be fruitless. She doesn’t exist any more. Neither does the scared and tormented 18 year old girl. Or the 21 year old anorexic. These are versions of me, yes, and I have carried almost all of the same *core* personality traits that I’ve had since birth with me. But I’m a different person now. Every experience I have had up until this day has shaped me into who I am today. And trying to find a way back to even me a year ago would, in my opinion, be impossible.

Now we’re getting into dangerously philosophical waters here about what makes you “you” and the idea that existence precedes essence, so on a side note if you’re interested – Sartre in particular has various books and papers on his theory of existentialism.

Okay so as usual a very long post. It has been a bit rocky adjusting to being home after 3 weeks away, but as soon as it was confirmed I would be returning to University my whole outlook changed and I realised that in order to accomplish my goals I was going to have to let go of the life I have now – where despite the relief I get from harming myself or the safety I feel from having professionals to talk to to, it is not what I want for myself. I owe it to the 13 year old me who decided she wanted to be a lawyer to at least try and make that happen. Maybe I’m finally in a place where I know I deserve a chance to feel worthy, good and happy about myself.

Wow, so I was really planning on not making a big deal out of University for fear of having to come back on here and reveal that I haven’t managed yet again. And also because all my peers are currently doing PHDs, Masters or are a couple of years into their chosen career paths.

We always hear “everyone’s paths look different” and that’s true except what about when most of the people you know of your age paths look very similar? That can make you feel so alienated. Everyone says Instagram and Facebook paint a rose tinted and very selective picture of peoples lives – which is true but those things they post about did actually happen and those achievements are real, so it’s not all made up.

My advice is different. There is nothing wrong with seeing and liking and commenting on people’s posts. Congratulate them on getting married, having a child or getting a promotion. Personally, I believe self acceptance is the key here. When you’re at peace with yourself you stop feeling the need to compare yourself to others. It is amazing when something good happens to a friend or family member and having the ability to enjoy that with them without comparisons, jealousy or resentment is an incredible skill. I don’t know how to not feel alienated but I do know this much. Life is too short to spend it telling yourself you’re not good enough. You are good enough. You have always been good enough. And you will continue to be good enough until you die. Because at no point will you or have you ever been worthless. And that is something I can hand on heart promise you.

Take care guys


Psychiatric Hospitals – patient kindness

Things I’ve seen…

On the night before my 21st birthday I saw a group of patients stand in the garden (in November) and wait until 12.01 to sing Happy Birthday to me. They had bought me flowers.

I’ve seen a girl buy another girl a teddy because she said she had left hers at home.

I’ve seen guys watching football together and girls getting frustrated because they wanted to watch the bake off final. So they agreed, one ward would watch bake off and the other the football.

On my first night in an adult psychiatric ward I saw all the women in my dorm hold me and stand around me until I stopped crying.

I’ve seen a patient take another patient to the shop because, although she was allowed out, she was too scared to go on her own.

The day I decided to try and eat after a long period of having nothing, I saw 2 girls decide between them who would hold my hand and who would wipe my tears.

I’ve seen notes of encouragement and letters being left on peoples beds.

I’ve seen a girl come back from pass with emergency moustaches (yes you read that correctly).

I’ve seen people of all ages – from teenagers to men and women in their 60s sitting outside together drinking tea, listening to music and bitching about how the old doctor we hated was better than the new one that we now hated more.

I’ve seen girls braiding each other’s hair and doing each other’s nails.

I’ve seen people telling others when they should ask for help – or getting help for them. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.

Yes psych wards can be loud when people are unwell and it can be unsettling and it can be scary – but usually we just feel bad for the person in distress.

Some of my closest friends are people I’ve met through my admissions and mental illness.

And in the words of Harry Potter…

“There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other”

And I think that knocking out a 12 foot mountain troll is just as hard as trying to recover from any Mental Illness.

A Long Overdue Update

“You have the power to say ‘this is not how my story will end’”

Hello everyone,

So yet again I have to apologise for my considerably long absence. Things have been incredibly hectic and despite thinking to myself at least twice a week that I need to write a post, I either haven’t had the time or I have not had the energy.

I think my last blog post was “A day in the life of an Anorexic” back in January 2019. I hope you found it both informative and interesting.

This blog post is probably going to be a bit of a mess structure wise and definitely all over the place. I want to do an update so I will briefly go into the events of last year and then continue on from there to now. I will try and keep this as short and as concise as possible, but then again we all know how long my blog posts end up being!

I actually don’t think I have written a personal post for a long time. And I’m not going to trail all the way through to 2017 as it isn’t really necessary and has little effect on the here and now. But I will say this, I ended 2017 in a pretty good place. It had been a very up and down year with my self-harm but I was in supported accommodation and any admissions I had to general or psychiatric hospitals were brief. A few times my self-harm got so bad I needed blood transfusions and there were some very close calls when I was in serious danger. At times I wasn’t sure whether my supported accommodation would take me back due to my risk. However, looking on the year as a whole, it wasn’t one of my worst years. I entered 2018 pretty happy and despite having to drop out of university again, I had come to terms with the fact that I probably wasn’t ready. In 2017 I went on holiday to Majorca and had a road trip around England with my father. I was in therapy and fighting hard to get better.


Predictably, in January 2018 I ended up back in hospital for what was going to be a very long 8 months. I say predictably because there seems to be a trend that my Mental Health plummets after New Year and tends to result in an admission to a psychiatric ward (there are reasons for this involving trauma). The basis for detaining me was due to the severity and increase frequency of my self-harm. I was needing blood transfusions more and more and staff were regularly phoning ambulances and finding me in my room which they said “looked like a murder scene”. Yet I must say this, for support workers that were not trained as medical professionals, they were incredible. They kept calm and rational despite the knowledge that this could be the time I might not make it. The reason for such a lengthy admission was not because I constantly proved to be high risk, but because my supported accommodation had decide that they could not take me back. And I did not blame them in the slightest. I was upset and angry, but only with myself.

Naturally this created a problem. Where would I live now? Ideas were thrown around like frisbies and no-one had the faintest idea what was going to happen. One moment I was going into another supported accommodation, next I was going to a long term rehabilitation ward after that I was going to live independently. So after months of debate it was decided I would live alone and be closely monitored. By this point I was allowed to leave the ward for full days at a time as well as having overnight passes back to my parents’ home in Edinburgh. I was singing in my choir and going to groups. I was even allowed to go on holiday abroad for ten days and come back. Effectively I was living independently, I just had to go back to the ward at night. By the time October came I was so excited for discharge. I felt confident in my ability to function in the community. I moved into my flat and all seemed well. But that week was incredibly difficult. I guess this is because, despite barely being on the ward in the weeks prior to my discharge, staying in the ward I had the comfort of knowing there were people to help me through the night. But on my own, I had no-one. The next few months from October through to December were pretty stable. Of course things weren’t perfect, but whose life is? But I was coping well. I had a truly lovely Christmas and saw in the New Year with some of my closest and most supportive friends.


I started the year in a good place. I had finally got all my old belongings into my new flat and I was starting to really enjoy my freedom. Against the odds (including getting through the festive period) I managed all the way to March doing group therapy and, for the most part, staying out of hospitals.

But from the beginning of February I had started to experience severe dissociative symptoms. I have always suffered with dissociation to some degree. It used to primarily be de-realisation – where I felt the world around me was fake and I did not exist. I would wander slowly through streets and stare at every person feeling so disconnected that it was like watching a film I wasn’t in. I often turned to self-harm by cutting or overdosing just to feel alive or “more real”. I was losing time more and more often which was something that had only rarely happened previously. I had gaps in my memory and would often end up in dangerous situations without knowing what I was doing or where I was. During March and April things didn’t improve. I decided I wasn’t stable enough for therapy and began to hurt myself more often. I would overdose and not tell anyone. I would cut and not get stitches. Most of the time I was hurting myself I had dissociated and it took a while for me to “come to” and realise what I had done. I was so scared. Particularly because I now knew what I was capable of.

This fear of being out of control coupled with the feeling that no-one had any answers to my memory gaps or any suggestions of how to manage it led me to decide to take matters into my own hands and attempt suicide. It was a very bad incident and the fact I survived was sheer luck. I was discharged into the care of my father who was staying with me at the time, but the next day he felt he could not cope and asked me to go into hospital. So against every bone in my body and every thought in my head I agreed.

And this is where we are now. I find myself, yet again, in a psychiatric ward completely confused as to what to do. I am not used to voluntary admissions and I am desperate to discharge myself. I know hospital does not help me and they are limited in what they can offer me. I feel we have hit a dead end with treatment options and we are going to fall into symptom management. I now have an intense fear of my own thoughts. They are very overpowering and controlling which leaves me feeling powerless. So I am not in a very good headspace at the moment.

As I suspected this post has been incredibly long and detailed and I apologise for that. It is probably not very coherent or easy to read. So I hope you can forgive me.

Despite my situation, I want you all to know that I have not given up. I am trying to hang in there and I hope that you all are too.

I would also like to ask if there are any topics you would like me to cover. If you have any ideas please comment below and I’ll see what I can do.

Take care guys


A day in the life of an Anorexic

*Trigger Warning for all Eating Disorders. Contains details of behaviours and numbers. Please DO NOT read if you are struggling or feel you are in a position where you may be triggered*

“Beauty is not measured in pounds”

I wake up and check the clock. 4am. Urgh. Still so early. I toss and turn and spend the next 3 hours slipping in and out of sleep. My mind is full of numbers and planning and exercise. 7am. Ok. Time to move. God its cold. Why is my room so cold? Come on Jenny. MOVE. I force myself out of bed and go straight to the bathroom. I stare at the scale knowing the number will determine the course of the day. Taking a deep breath I step on fighting the urge to jump off and run forever in the opposite direction. No. I deserve to feel this pain. The numbers move rapidly and finally settle. Damn. Same as yesterday. Still fat.

I jump in the shower and avoid even glancing at my disgusting fat covered self in the mirror. I am always conscious of every atom in my body. I can feel the soft rolls of skin fat on my stomach fall on top of each other as I bend down to pick up my shampoo. It makes me want to cut it off. I see my thighs, thick and wide as I scrub the badness away. I wrap a towel round me and run to my bedroom. I put on my make-up and dry my hair in a desperate bid to look less ugly. Now for the hard bit. Getting dressed in the morning is always the most traumatising experience. I settle for leggings and an oversized jumper. It makes me feel smaller. And hides the feeling of my forever expanding body.

I walk into the kitchen. I stare around. I don’t know what I like. I don’t know what I want. But I do know I do not like lingering in kitchens – its dangerous territory. What if I lose control and eat everything? I pick up an apple and eat it slowly savouring every last bite. I finish and I know I want more. I want toast with melted butter. I want eggs and bacon. I want waffles and pancakes and cereal. But instead I shiver as I clutch my black coffee.

I go about my day. It revolves solely around food and exercise – calories in v calories out. Every calorie is counted with meticulous precision. Every step taken counts. The aim – a serious calorie deficit. I walk/run all morning until I feel physically sick but I still cannot allow myself to stop. That would be weak. That would be wrong. That would be bad. So I stagger home, forcing myself to use the stairs because every tiny bit of exercise I do is crucial.

Its lunch time. I watch others unpack sandwiches, crips, chocolate, yoghurts and every other forbidden food wherever I happen to be (School, Uni or Work). The list of bad foods gets longer every single day. What started off as cutting out a few ‘unhealthy’ snacks years ago rapidly snowballed into a list that turned out not to be of what I couldn’t eat but of only those things I could eat. My lunch? A 70 calorie cereal bar. I kid myself i’m not jealous. I lie and tell myself I’m strong for resisting the temptation to eat normally. In a desperate bid to distract myself from the pain of an empty stomach, I drink copious amounts of Diet Coke. I remember someone once recommending that I try a flavoured Diet Coke. My head screamed NO! Not because I thought I wouldn’t like it, but because it was 1 calorie more. Did I not say EVERY calorie counts? Sometimes I allow myself to relax in the evenings but often that time is devoted to studying/working. When I finally go to bed I struggle to fall asleep. I’m mentally and physically exhausted but I can’t sleep. My stomach growls in frustration, my head spins and aches and my exposed bones make lying down in any position horrifically uncomfortable. But in some ways that gives me pleasure. I feel my hip bones sticking out and my concave stomach. I feel my arms and legs with no muscle left. I don’t ever feel beautiful or thin enough but knowing the number is going down calms the voice in my head.

As my body shrinks the bigger I feel. A starved mind does not function normally. I hold my breath around restaurants or take aways because I genuinely think I’ll absorb calories through smelling food. I turn down social events because I cannot cope around the food and the mental energy it takes to hold a conversation that lasts more than 3 minutes is monumental.

I am obsessed by food. I look at recipes or pictures of food online and feel guilty. How dare I even dream of allowing that amount of food to enter my body. It is hard to explain to someone who has no idea the high you get from starving yourself what it is like. I got a kind of twisted satisfaction. It’s also addictive. Oh so addictive. Because Anorexia is clever. It tricked me into believing that I was in control until the last possible moment. The moment when it pulled the rug from under my feet. This is the point of no return.

You see, you don’t just hand in your resignation to Anorexia. Oh no. You have entered into a contract. You can’t just walk away and say ‘thank you very much but I want to live normally now…’ You’re stuck in a very abusive relationship where you cannot leave. This is where all hell breaks loose and the real inner battle and torment starts. In many ways you knew what you were getting yourself into, but you convinced yourself that you could stop at any moment. However, now you want an out and Anorexia is not just going to hand the reigns back over. It has been the mastermind and puppeteer since the beginning.

So now you don’t feel strong when you refuse food. You cry in anger and frustration and sadness. It has gone from choosing not to eat to a desperation to be allowed something, but the physical act of putting food on a fork and chewing and swallowing terrifies you. You are desperate to eat without the guilt. You don’t want to spend every day head bent over the toilet seat bringing up every last thing you ate. You don’t want to spend hours running frantically. And now when the numbers go down there is a feeling of blind panic hidden amongst the satisfaction at reaching another goal weight. You’re scared because you can’t stop and you don’t want to die.

And as each day passes you grow weaker. Your heart and organs are beginning to shut down. You’re dehydrated. You’re tired. You’re hungry. You’re forced to exercise well into the night. You are covered in bruises. Your skin is dry and your nails peel. You have dark shadows under your lifeless eyes framed by a gaunt face you do not recognise anymore. And while the changes in your appearence are scary enough, nothing has changed more than your mind. Anorexia is a leach. It slowly sucks away any hope, happiness or sense of self you have. It is ruthless. It is unforgiving. It is a liar. And it will hit you black and blue until you have no fight left. And while along the way it has slowly but surely taken away your health, your friends, your hobbies it will not rest until it takes away the ultimate thing. Your life.

Anorexia kills 1 in 5 sufferers. Seek help. You cannot fight this alone. You deserve more than an existence, you deserve freedom. And I promise you this – nothing will EVER be enough. There is nothing glamorous or beautifully sad yet romantic about Anorexia. It is ugly. It is dangerous. And it is evil.

Take care guys


Suicide and Depression

“The bravest thing I ever did was continuing my life when I wanted to die”

Today I want to talk about suicide. I have spoken out a bit on Facebook about my suicide attempts, but I want to explain how and why people get to a point in their lives where they feel they cannot possibly go on.

One of the things I hate most about the stigma surrounding Depression and consequently suicidal ideation is when people take the moral high ground. I do not mean this is a sick or twisted way. What I mean is the fact some people automatically deem it as selfish. They say things like ‘How could they hurt their friends like that?’. ‘Why did they not care about the people they left behind?’.

These people never stop and think about how much pain a person must have been through to get to that stage in their lives. No-one ever stops to consider what the moments before a self inflicted and potentially lethal action are like. Speaking from experience, I can assure you I did not take those pills on a whim and I certainly did not cut my wrists for a laugh. I did not forget about the few people who would have been directly affected by my death. I did not underestimate the hurt I would cause.

So then, naturally, I guess it begs the question why? Why would you choose such a final action, particularly when you are so aware of the hurt you would cause? I cannot answer this question universally (because I could not possibly be naive enough to suggest that everyone’s experiences of severe Depression and subsequent suicidal thinking are the same) but I can attempt to explain how – in the mind of a sick young adult – one can justify such a decision.

Firstly I guess, like anything in life, you have to weigh things up. When you are at rock bottom and feel that nothing will ever get better. As if nothing no-one says or does will EVER make a difference to your life, to how you feel. When you cannot see a future for yourself and the black cloud descends, you create a picture in your head of how the world would look without you. You see the few people in your life that would be affected by your death – mourning you in the short term but you convince yourself that they’ll get over it. That they will soon realise that their lives will be improved without you. You tell yourself that they’ll be ok and that everything will eventually be ‘fixed’ without you there to ruin it. It is incredible how rational you can convince yourself you are being during the run up to perhaps the most irrational decision of your life. Secondly, and I think that this in particular was true for me, people underestimate the lack of self worth people who are suicidal tend to have. They do not see themselves as ‘lovable’, as ‘popular’, as ‘valued’. We feel worthless, a waste of space and most of us are so sick of ourselves we struggle to see how anyone can stand to be with us when we cannot even stand to be with ourselves.

Still not convinced? I ask you to read this. And then tell me that you still cannot possibly understand.


Imagine a life with no pleasure, no happiness, no light. Nothing good. Everything is bad (or it seems like that). There is no joy. There are no good days and bad days. There are just bad days – and even worse days. Imagine a healthy persons sadness. Multiply that by 1000 then throw in anger, anxiety, guilt and every other negative emotion under the sun. Welcome to the world of Depression. It is a very bleak world. People do not understand why you are so negative. But that is not unusual. People rarely understand you. You see you are unlikable and the majority of people hate you. But you feel like you are a bad person and that you deserve the pain anyway. Besides, you cannot hurt anyone if you are alone. The way you feel affects the few friendships you have left – they try hard but you push them away. You convince yourself that they either feel sorry for you or they feel like they should make an effort. You like them but you are fed up of repeatedly hurting them so you keep your distance. You try and protect them.

Imagine feeling alone even when there are people around you. Imagine spending days in bed because you feel too ugly, too disgusting to be allowed out. Your life consists of appointments, medication and monitoring. Every few days you sit in front of a different professional who half listens while taking notes, nodding their heads and occasionally muttering a few ambiguous comments about what you should try and do. They may even say a few reassuring words, maybe they make some sense and you see a glimmer of hope but then you leave and you realise that they get to go home at the end of the day to their ‘normal’ lives. They don’t think about you. They care because it is their JOB to care. But it is their job to care for those 50 minutes when they must talk to you. After that you become another patient. Another file. Another name. You leave the building and suddenly you are back in this big terrifying world and you are on your own again – who are you kidding you are always on your own. You walk down the street and feel disconnect from every single person that walks past. It is like you are in a bubble or watching a film in slow motion. They are not part of your world. They are in this ‘promised land’. The place everyone keeps promising you exists if you ‘keep fighting’, ‘keep being brave’, ‘keep holding on’. You get the bus and watch everyone wondering what their life is like. You see people your age laughing, smiling, joking and you wonder why that can’t be you. Maybe you spend your evening getting drunk with people you barely know. Maybe you spend them drinking on your own attempting to inject some happiness into your tired soul. Maybe you sleep around simply trying to feel love. To feel good. Maybe you cut yourself in a desperate attempt to feel SOMETHING other than this black, numb pain or to perhaps to distract yourself from the emotional scars that lie embedded even deeper in you than the train-tracks lining your body.

That night you go to bed. God knows what time it is. Days feel like months. Weeks feel like years. You’re exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. You wish you were happy. You wish you were better. But you have felt this way for so long you don’t even know what better is. People try and help but no-one knows what living like this is like. You toss and turn desperate to fall asleep because you want to be able to function as a human being when you wake up. It’d be nice to feel alive. You think about taking pills to either end everything or to just knock you out for a while so you don’t have to think. Its 3am and you scroll through the numbers on your phone of people you have been told to call whatever the time, it is for moments just like this. But all you see is names. All you see is people who do not deserve to be bothered by you. None of them deserve this to be put on them. These are good people. Happily sleeping. In any case what can they do? Nothing can save you now. You are past saving. It’s your own fault anyway. People say you are brave. You are sick of being brave. You don’t want to have to be brave. You want to be ok. But that’s not going to happen. No-ones ever asked you what you want. You try to think back to a time where everything was ok. But all you can see is black. You think ahead desperate to see some light at the end of this long tunnel. But nothing is there. It is black too. And you are blind.

Tell me now that you don’t understand why people give up. And tell me now that suicide is selfish.